Vanity Row

by W. R. Burnett

  That girl! The sight of her had numbed him. And at that, he'd hardly managed to see what she looked like-her face, anyway. The rest of her had been obvious enough. So obvious, in fact, that even poor old stultified Ed had said: "Zing!" sadly. Out of Ed's reach.

  "And out of yours, you damned fool!" Roy told himself, savagely.

  Finally he dozed as the roar of the city gradually faded and he heard nothing except the faint ringing of the surface-car bell, as it turned the corner near his hotel… clang-clang, clang-clang…

  The phone rang. He got up, cursing. It was Emmett.

  "Roy, good grief," wailed Lackey, "you got to come down. I hate to bother you, but… Every paper in town's putting the pressure on. Even Mr. Bayliss has called."

  "What time is it?"

  "It's after four."

  "My God! Tell Boley to pick me up right away."

  He banged up the receiver and hurried in to take a shower. He'd only intended to rest for a couple of hours. He'd practically lost the whole day.

  In the shower he began to sing, but checked himself. How long had it been since he'd sung in a shower? Laughing, he bellowed: "Jumbuck the billa-bong!" Then, he spoke thoughtfully: "Good old Wesson. What a louse!"

  He put on the double-breasted gray suit Sam Brod had given him for some favor he'd done for Sam. It was valued at two-fifty. Quite a suit!

  Finally he looked in the mirror at himself. "Great," he observed, "except for the face. When the looks were passed out, I got slighted."

  And yet he knew that he was attractive to many women. There was a harsh, virile ugliness about his narrow face and his cool, observant gray eyes that troubled them.

  13

  As they drove to the City Building Boley explained to Roy that the place was in an ungodly uproar with reporters running wild in the corridors and poor old Lackey going slightly crazy trying to preserve order. A girl reporter from a tabloid had sneaked down to the basement cells, either stealing a work-elevator or bribing somebody.

  "Which, of course, is not hard to do," said Roy. "Did she get an interview?"

  "No. She got her ears burned."

  "How so?" Roy turned and glanced at Boley with interest.

  "Alma told me that the girl really read the riot act to the reporter. In ladylike language, too. Not even a damn. Alma threw the reporter out. And Alma got told off by the reporter. But it wasn't ladylike. She said she heard words she didn't know existed. I guess it's all a matter of a college education."

  "Yeah," said Roy.

  "Wesson told me he was hiding for his life. That beat he got sure raised a stink, a couple of papers lodging a protest. They claim Wesson always gets favored because he's a crook."

  "More or less true," said Roy, laughing slightly.

  "Never saw one like this before," said Boley. "Look, Roy. I'm going to break down. I sneaked a gander at the broad."

  "Zing!" said Roy.

  "You ought to see Emmett's face. He…"

  Roy broke in. "When did he see her?"

  "See her!" cried Boley. "He worked her over. Gave her the scientific treatment."

  Roy lost his temper for a moment, then his mood changed and he laughed curtly. "Well, I guess there's no reason why poor old Emmett shouldn't get an eyeful. Everybody else has. Nobody pays any attention to my orders, anyway."

  Boley sobered and was silent for a moment. "It's like this, Roy. I'm telling you. Things got completely out of hand. This is real Big League stuff. Murder of a rich guy like Hobart-and a doll like that mixed up in it! Why, it'll sell more papers than if Washington, D.C. was burned down by Communists. What an uproar! Reporters getting fired… God knows what! You wait!"

  "H'm," said Roy. "Let's go in the alleyway. Let's sneak in through the basement, and take a work-elevator upstairs."

  "Okay."

  "Any of the reporters get to Dumas or Miss Jensen? If they did, I'll put Sid in for transfer."

  "I don't think so. He's got 'em hid some place." Boley was beginning to get a little agitated. Once Roy took to the warpath anything could happen. High brass always backed him up a hundred percent!

  ***

  A gray-haired turnkey started slightly when he saw Roy and Boley coming down the ramp into the basement from the truck entrance. Then he turned and called: "Alma! Alma! The Captain!"

  Alma, in her smart gray uniform, came on the run. She was a tall, rawboned woman, about forty. She'd been on the force for nearly twenty years in one capacity or another; and was now the boss of the matrons and policewomen in the City Building, and highly regarded by all the male personnel, which was more than could be said for a good many of the women in the department. She had dark hair, and a long, plain face, slightly disfigured by burn scars she'd received dragging a would-be-suicide out of a gas explosion. She was imperturable, hard to impress, and seemingly immune to the emotional storms which lowered the efficiency of too many of the policewomen. But now she looked agitated, and a lock of hair kept falling down over her forehead. Roy noticed this at once because it was unprecedented. Alma was the soul of neatness, tidiness.

  "What kind of a girl is that you sent me, Captain?" she cried. "She didn't have a stitch on except that skirt and sweater."

  "She dressed in a hurry," said Roy.

  "A taxi driver came with three suitcases full of clothes for her. Awful nice things. Prettiest underclothes I ever saw."

  "Did you let her have 'em?"

  "Of course not. Who's she?"

  "You mean she's got the drabs on?"

  "Naturally, Captain."

  "She in a cell?"

  "No. I put her in the restraining-room. It's comfortable. Nice bed and all. I had her in a cell till that redheaded b… well, that redheaded girl from the Post sneaked down here."

  "What do you think of our prisoner?"

  "A raving beauty, of course. And very nice and polite in her demeanor. Couldn't be nicer. She really put that redheaded b… that redhead in her place, and politely."

  "Give her her clothes. Let her dress up, and make her as comfortable as you can. No drabs, no routine. She's to do nothing but sit in that room and read or whatever she likes."

  "I understand, Captain. Yes, sir."

  "No contact with any of the prisoners. I'm holding you personally responsible."

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Now about Lackey. Did he question her?"

  "No, sir. I don't think so. He was only with her in the laboratory for a little while. He made some tests."

  "Okay, Alma."

  ***

  Roy slipped into his office by a back corridor. Boley went around to the ante-room to help Gert and Ed Reynolds. Roy heard the uproar when Boley appeared, and winced slightly.

  In the main room, Lackey was sitting at one desk and Wesson at another.

  "Well," said Roy, staring at Wesson.

  "I'm persona non grata with my colleagues," said Wesson. "Translated, that means they think that I'm a stinker and a louse."

  "Well?"

  "Now wait a minute, Roy. It's all in the viewpoint, and the viewpoint depends on the moral climate. The present moral climate, shall we say, leaves more than a little to be desired? What do you want me to do-martyrize myself? Did you ever look in a mirror?"

  "Glib," said Roy.

  "Thank you. No, when in Rome make like a Roman. I'm the inheritor of an older tradition-a Greek among barbarians, you might say. But I've got a belly to fill."

  "And what a belly! All right, beat it. I've got work to do."

  "May I hide in your private office? Come on, Roy. Just till the heat gets off. I've been threatened."

  "No. You think I want you going through my files? There's a store-room down the back hall. And don't fill your pockets with typewriter ribbons."

  Wesson grabbed up his coat and a fistful of magazines. "The very thing," he said, and went out.

  Roy sat down across from Lackey whose upper lip was beaded with sweat, and whose eyes were more than usually evasive behind his old-fashioned glasses.
>
  "I told Creel nobody was to see that girl," said Roy.

  "I know, Roy. But I interpreted that to mean, no newspaper people. No outsiders. I had my work to do."

  "Well?"

  "Her hands are clear of any indication of firing a gun recently."

  "All right. How about gloves?"

  "I found two pair in the apartment. One pair in a closet, another pair in a waste-basket. I thought to myself, this may be it. But-nothing."

  Roy picked up a phone and dialled. In a moment, Alma answered.

  "Alma-any gloves in those suitcases?"

  "No gloves."

  Roy hung up. "Emmett, tonight I want you to run out alone to that address on Barrington. Those people are okay. Take a look for gloves."

  "Yes, Roy. The girl has quite a bad black eye. Did you notice?"

  "No," said Roy, his eyes lighting up slightly. "She had on dark glasses."

  "She told me there was a closet door in her apartment at the Ashton that stuck. When she tried to pull it open, it gave all of a sudden and hit her."

  "Well?"

  "I called the Ashton, got Mr. Clemm. One of the closet doors in her apartment sticks. She reported it."

  "All right. Now-give me the routine stuff."

  "No gun has been found. It was apparently a.38. But only one bullet has been located and it is so mashed up it's hard to tell anything. One shot hit Hobart a glancing blow on the temple. One nicked his shoulder. One went through his left chest, killing him. I don't know which of the bullets we found."

  "Anything in the newsboy's transcript?"

  "It sets the time, that's about all. Shortly after eleven-thirty. Hobart seemed to appear out of nowhere, according to the boy. A car turned the corner directly before, but it may or may not have had anything to do with the killing. In fact, the boy is vague. Reading the transcript, it seems that Hobart walked some little distance before he fell. When the boy first saw him, after hearing the shots, he appeared to be standing on the corner. There were no more shots. All of a sudden he crumpled up."

  "Anything else?"

  "Oh, yes. Mr. Hobart's Cadillac was found abandoned about ten blocks from the corner where he was killed."

  "Have you looked it over?"

  "Yes. Nothing. A picture of the girl was in the glove-compartment. It was autographed to: Frank, my darling daddy."

  " 'Darling daddy,' " Roy mused. "It's a funny thing how many darling daddies catch lead. Fingerprints?"

  "They are not all worked up yet. But I don't expect much. The ones on the wheel were all smeared. Let you know later."

  "All right." Roy got up. "I want the Jensen girl. Sneak her up the backway. I'll be in my office."

  "Okay, Roy." Lackey reached for the phone. "I hope, Roy, that I haven't offended you. I thought you meant…"

  Roy laughed shortly. "You just wanted to get a look at the big bim. Now didn't you, Emmett? Admit something for once."

  Lackey cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well, now, of course, there was a natural curiosity, but…"

  "I give up," said Roy, and went into his private office, slamming the door.

  ***

  Just as Roy sat down at his desk, the phone rang. It was Gert in the outer office. "Mr. Bayliss, Captain," she said.

  Chad came on at once. He sounded elated. "You're doing great, Roy. Great! I saw the evening papers. It will be front page from morning till night now."

  "It's just starting, Chad. Wait till we cut loose with the real pictures."

  "I saw the ones in the World-couldn't make out much. Dark glasses, purse in the way. But, good God, Roy, what a figure! Now I know what they mean by pneumatic bliss. Poor old Frank. Didn't think he was capable of it. Anyway, it's great work, Roy. Oh, just a minute. One thing. There is always one silly bastard to darken your day, no matter how bright it is. Chuck Thomas called from the Post. Old friend of mine. Raised hell. Put in a complaint against you. Said you always favored the World. Told him I'd speak to you about it. Now I have."

  "Wait a minute, Chad. The World's nothing to me. But they got a man named Wesson. He is so smart it might be a good idea to drown him. He dogged me like a bloodhound on this one. He even brought up the word 'politics.' So I took care of him."

  "Good work," said Chad. "Beefs never bother me, Roy. However, if you can do Chuck a good turn, don't pass it up."

  "Okay. But you understand about Wesson."

  "I do, Roy. Goodbye now. You're a whiz, and…"

  "Wait a minute," Roy interposed hastily. "Where you calling from?"

  "A pay-phone."

  "Fine. Listen, Chad. There are some rather funny angles to this case. We might have the guilty person at that."

  "Not a chance, Roy. I'm telling you."

  "Sure it's not just a preconceived idea you got? You could be wrong."

  "Take my word for it, Roy. It's grapevine. They've been making threats, the boys I've mentioned. I sent a man to contact them nearly a month ago. He got nothing but a quick brushoff. There's been a turnover in the organization. New blood. No, Roy. Just keep on the way you're going, but don't try to kid yourself."

  "Okay, Chad."

  As Roy hung up there was a light tap at the door, then Alma came in with Ruth Jensen, who did not seem quite as composed as she had earlier in the day.

  "Sit down, Miss Jensen," said Roy. "You want to wait in the main room, Alma? I won't be long."

  "No, I think I'd better go back. We caught that girl from the Post again. She was knocking on Miss Vance's door. How she got down there or knew where to knock, I'll never know."

  "Who's on duty at the turntable?"

  "Old Pat."

  "Tell Old Pat to go and buy his wife a present with the bribes he's been taking, and tell Emmett to put Red Benson on the turntable. Emmett is to inform Red that he can now kick all the reporters he wants to-even female ones, and that he can also smash a few cameras."

  Alma smiled slightly. "Yes, Captain. Then I'd better go back downstairs. No telling what will break next."

  "Did you give the girl her clothes?"

  "I did. And I thought she was going to cry. She just hated the drabs. And I wish you could see the way she looked at our nice shower-room."

  "Spoiled, eh? Good thing she's not in the County Jail. All right, Alma. If there's any more trouble, call me. But I doubt if there will be, with Red down there."

  Alma went out. Roy rose, walked to the window, and lit a cigarette.

  "I had no idea what an important man you were, Mr. Hargis," said Ruth.

  He glanced at her, noted the irony. All the same, her face showed the strain of waiting and uncertainty. She had a nice front this girl, but Roy was positive that she was very emotional, very passionate, and that she was blindly infatuated with the tall, careless, arrogant, young musician.

  " 'Captain' not 'mister,' " he said, smiling slightly. "Did they let you use the phone?"

  "Yes. Alma is very nice. I took you at your word, so I didn't call a lawyer. I merely called a girl friend of mine, and asked her to look after the shop for me."

  "I see. Well, we won't be long. Then you can go."

  "What about Bob?"

  "I'm going to talk to him later."

  "I know. But he needs that job. He hasn't got a penny."

  "I think they'll hold the job for him. That is, if he ever gets out of here."

  Ruth rose quickly and came over to Roy, her face showing deep concern. "You don't think that he… How could you think such a thing? Why, he's gentle as a lamb. He wouldn't hurt a fly. Captain Hargis-listen to me. Just because he happened to get mixed up with a… with a…"

  "With a what, Miss Jensen?"

  "With a horrible person like that."

  "He was having an affair with her. Wasn't he?"

  "No. He was not," Ruth shouted. "She did everything in the world to…"

  "Including a murder."

  "I don't know what you mean." Ruth was very pale and agitated. She got out a handkerchief and began to twist it into a ball,
then to tear it.

  Roy watched her for a moment, then he came over to her, took her gently by the arm and forced her to sit down.

  "Tell me what happened last night."

  "I told you, Captain."

  "No, you lied. Now I'd like to have the truth."

  There was a pause, then Ruth said: "I told you the truth."

  "No," said Roy. "But if you would tell me the truth, it might help Bob, unless I'm very much mistaken. Don't let your vanity stand in the way. I've known two men who were hung for vanity."

  Ruth spoke in such a low voice that Roy could hardly hear her. "I don't know what you mean."

  "I'll explain. You were with Bob all last evening. It was Monday, and Cipriano's was dark. You had a nice little party together. You sat and talked. Maybe Bob played the piano for you. Not that Cavallaro stuff he has to play. But stuff he likes-maybe his own music…"

  Ruth began to cry.

  "He's a nice guy. He may be a damned fool, but that has never yet kept a man from being a nice guy. You're a nice girl. I don't mean you are necessarily a virgin, Miss Jensen. There are other ways of being nice. Anyway, two nice people sitting together enjoying a nice evening. Then what happens? The phone rings. A harpy calls. Your nice boy runs out on you, and you sit there waiting… and you wait… and it's damn near morning…"

  "No," sobbed Ruth.

  "Yes," said Roy. "You are a very pretty girl, Miss Jensen. And a refined girl, and a good girl in the sense I mean it. You've got Bob's best interests at heart. You'd do anything to help him. You'd like to marry him, and make things easy for him… wouldn't you, Miss Jensen?"

  "Yes."

  "Fine. And yet right now, out of vanity, you are denying that the harpy called… and that Bob left you… and stayed away all night. Why is that?"